


Stress Relief

by EasyTiga



Series: EasyTiga's SPN Kink Meme Contributions [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Ass to Mouth, Barebacking, Bottom Sam wesson, Chair Sex, Choking, Cock Warming, Come Eating, Deepthroating, Desk Sex, Dom Dean Smith, Face-Fucking, Hair-pulling, M/M, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sub Sam Wesson, Top Dean Smith, Unrelated Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, petting, tail plug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27713722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EasyTiga/pseuds/EasyTiga
Summary: SPN Kink Meme Contribution 6 (I didn't finish posting it because of personal crap, but yeah)On the days that work is too stressful for Dean, he goes to Sam's cubicle and whistles one time. Sam knows what to do immediately. He has to go wear his dog mittens and kneepads then crawl (everybody knows he's Dean's sub) to Dean's office where he's waiting for him with his leash in hand. When he's naked and the leash is clasped to his collar Dean puts the dog tail plug in his ass. Sam heels by Dean's chair eyes on the floor waiting for Sir's orders. Dean runs his fingers through his pet's hair starting the stress relief.
Relationships: Dean Smith/Sam Wesson
Series: EasyTiga's SPN Kink Meme Contributions [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023189
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	Stress Relief

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I was not able to finish this one on time OP, but I'm sure you know why I wasn't really in a state to get it done.
> 
> Anyway, happy belated birthday, as well. XD 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it. :D

A high-pitched, commanding whistle pierces through the air and Sam straightens his back instantly. The pen that he was twiddling fell to the desk from the rush of his movements, skittering. He keeps his posture immaculate as he rifles through his drawer for his bag, setting it on his lap, unsealing it and reaching in for the contents.

Once he has them secure in his hands, he lets the bag drop, bending and snapping them in place as quickly as possible. The one time he decided to strip first and put them on in view of the office, he was given thirty lashes on his ass and finger shaped bruises on his hips from his Master pinching his skin with his grip. He had told him his body belonged to him and no one else, that he never wants another soul to see him stripped bare, intentionally, that is not him.

Even though Sam enjoyed parts of what happened to him that evening, he adhered to his Master's whims and has since donned his knee pads before getting his kit off. At first, it was about practicality. It made zero sense for him to put his pads on, crawl to Master's office, and then take them off, strip, put them back on and be ready.

Nevertheless, it's not up to him to decide.

Once he enters that office, all of these thoughts go out of the window. He will be at Master's beck and call.

Excitement crawls up his spine, padded knees hitting the floor and hands bracing him. He pays no mind to the people watching him. They know this is a thing that happens, on occasion.

Everyone in Sandover is aware that Sam Wesson is the submissive/pet of Dominant/Master Dean Smith. It's common knowledge. Sometimes, even, talk of the water cooler. Though, Sam tends to either not get involved or spend his lunches with his head in Dean's lap, being fed from above. Master has a thing for feeling his throat when he swallows, not that Sam minds, any. In fact, it's quite titillating feeling the pressure of his interest nudging the back of his head.

Other times, when he's not that hungry, Master will eat while he holds him in the back of his throat. He finds purpose in that, true meaning that extends beyond his job as a tech support worker for a company that cares little about him.

He stayed on for Dean.

It all started in the elevator. Sam will never forget it, how Dean both attracted and repelled people at the same time. He knew instantly that he was a man that those around him respected, enough to keep their distance and not linger. It was as though a barrier existed around him. One that others knew not to cross.

Sam recognised it in his gaze when Dean looked up from his phone, eyes assessing. They made him feel like he was a slab of meat at a delhi, being carefully examined, the pros and cons of taking him home with him being weighed with each second that ticked by. Sam held his breath, stuck on the spot, throat bobbing, sweat breaking out on his neck.

Dean licked his lips. Said, "C'mere." As if the Earth tilted on its axis, Sam was compelled to comply. Dean looked at him, grabbed his face, checked his gums, his teeth, nodding clinically. Then Sam felt hands patting down his body, cupping his groin, feeling his balls. Two hands groped his ass, squeezed and kneaded. The cool air of the elevator hit his flesh seconds later, deft fingers spreading his cheeks and running down the seam of his ass, flirting with his hole, his taint, venturing further to tickle and get a better grip of his balls.

From the instant Dean had touched him, Sam didn't know what to do. All he knew was that he liked what was happening to him. He liked how Dean moved him so he was pressed with his hands on the wall, hands massaging every part of his body, testing him. He squeezed his thighs, his biceps, triceps, quads, slapped his abs and felt up to his nipples, tweaking them.

The first time Sam felt Dean's hard cock pressed against his ass through the fabric, he keened, and Dean shushed him. He told him to be quiet, turned his head to the side, shoved his fingers in his mouth, told him to suck. Sam did. Dean nodded, seemingly checking off things mentally as he went.

It was by that point, that Sam wondered why the elevator doors hadn't dinged. His one theory was that Dean had somehow pressed the emergency stop button while Sam had been stunned into silence by his handling of him.

"No gag reflex. Nice," Dean said, drawing his fingers back from Sam's mouth. "How big can you deepthroat?"

"Um, eight."

"That you're aware of?"

"Yes."

" _Master_."

"What?" Sam sputtered, bewildered.

Dean calmly stared at him. "You will address me as Master from now on, provided you're worth my time. I want you in my office after hours," he replied with authority, handing him his office details. "Do not eat anything for lunch, and if you're late, don't bother knocking the door. I won't answer it."

Sam swallowed, stock-still as Dean reactivated the elevator, pulled his pants up, tucked him in and sealed him away.

At the end of his shift, Sam rushed to Dean's office without thinking, head all over the place, heart hammering in his chest. He knocked the door, anticipation heavy in his gut. Dean answered, ushered him in, closed and locked the door. He told him to strip, fold his clothes and put them on the side. Sam did, waiting, wanting.

"Kneel," Dean said, and something about it felt right, Sam's knees hitting the floor. Something was dropped in front of him. They were pads. He took them, adhered to the order to put them on, surprised by how comfortable they were. Dean took a seat at his desk, gestured him over. A box of grapes sat opened on top of his desk. "You didn't eat, did you?"

"No, Master."

Dean's breathing changed. "Good pet."

And then he fed him the grapes, one by one, and Sam fell victim to the taste of Master's fingers on his tongue, teasing him, pressing. By the eighth grape, Sam became acutely aware that it wasn't the sweetness of the fruit that he opened his mouth wide for. It wasn't the texture of the grape that had saliva flooding in anticipation for its landing on the flat of his tongue. No, he didn't care about that at all. It was getting to lick and suckle on Dean's digits every time he circled them, or kept them in the cavern of his mouth to feel the lift of his tongue as he swallowed his treat. It was getting to watch Dean's eyes watch him, bottom lip moist and wanting, the presence between his legs throbbing and shifting as Sam took his fingers to the root and moaned around them.

When Dean finished feeding him, Sam was surprised by how light he felt, how Dean's fingers scritching through his hair, nudging his head forward to rest on his thigh, made him feel as though he was floating along a stream. Dean got his cock out of his pants then, the musk of man penetrating Sam's senses and making him ravenous. He may have even cried out in yearning for it, taste buds reacting as if bathed in a pool of delicious pastries and the like.

Sam's first taste of Dean made him come untouched.

It was the only time he wasn't punished for doing so without permission.

Bit by bit, Sam was introduced to things he had never imagined in his wildest dreams, and he accepted all of them. He put his faith in Dean, signed his body over to him, trusting that he would return him in a better condition than before he left.

Which he did.

And does.

Six months in, Dean collared Sam, officially, and took him home with him for the first night. They didn't play. Dean bathed and washed Sam thoroughly, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He left nothing to chance. After Sam was squeaky clean, Dean had Sam sit on a chair and watch him shower. Slowly. Torturously slowly. Sam's legs crossed, his feet stamped, he squirmed, twitched, whined and begged for Dean to let him in there with him.

Dean didn't. He rinsed off, slung a towel around his waist, dried Sam on the end of the bed, paying close attention to his hair. Sam stared up at him in awe, hoping for just one kiss.

He got one. But not then. It was the morning, Dean's hands sweeping up his front, plump lips on his shoulder, leading up to his ear, and then over to touch the corner of his mouth. Sam had stayed still, not wanting to ruin the moment. Dean had grasped his face, turned him. Their lips had met, and Sam could have cried on the spot, opening up to Dean's tongue, letting him take with hard, sensuous strokes that had Sam's body flaring up.

For breakfast, Dean made a fryup. He had a pillow primed and ready by his feet. Sam kneeled on it, accepting every morsel of food that Dean had to give him.

He never wanted to leave.

Two months later, he moved in.

The reminder has him tuning in to the jingle of his tags, comforted by their mere presence, the evidence of his _owned_ status. Something he no longer thinks he could live without.

Outside of his office, Dean is waiting for him, leash in hand. Dean steps back into his office, smoothes fingers through Sam's hair when he's close enough, pressing his face to his crotch. Sam breathes him in. He's allowed to do that. Master likes it. Makes him feel powerful. So Sam takes his fill, mouth filling with spit, wanting to house Dean's cock.

It's not time for that, however.

"Strip," Dean instructs, holding out a hand for Sam's knee pads, which he's quick to hand over. They rest on Dean's palm while Sam divests himself of his clothes, Dean closing the curtains with his free hand, blocking everyone else out. He had it put in his contract that he was not to be disturbed whenever Sam was in his office. Only one person has barged in unannounced. They don't work here anymore. "Good. Come," Master orders, when Sam is fully naked and secured in his knee pads once more, leash attached to his collar.

Master takes a seat at his desk, sighing. Sam longs to make him feel better, obediently kneeling between his legs. Dean opens a drawer, pulls out Sam's tail-plug and a wipe that he uses to cleanse it. He sets it on the desk, fishes out the lube to slick it up and then orders Sam to turn around. He does, dropping his shoulders to the floor and presenting his ass, hole twitching in anticipation.

Dean pushes it in, slowly, all the way, and Sam bites his lip harder as each ring is breached. It catches. Sam flexes around it, shuddering. Dean taps his ass, tells him to move to his side.

Once there, Dean leans back in his chair. Sam keeps his head down, waiting.

Dean doesn't list off any orders at first, just rests Sam's head between the space between his legs and massages his head. Sam can tell that Master is stressed, though he has no idea why. Dean never tells him the reasons, just expects him to be there when he needs him. Sam hopes that he can do that for the rest of his life, or at least as long as Dean is willing to accommodate him.

Another sigh leaves Dean's lips. Sam screams internally, helpless. Fingers cart through his hair, stroking, untangling, winding and petting, all the way down to his neck and back up again. Master is soft when he does this, patient, loving. Sam loves these moments as much as he loves the roughness. Revels in it, even. If he were a cat, he would be purring. Soft moans will have to do.

"That nice, pet?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good," Master replies, lifting his head up to massage behind his ears, down his neck, his shoulders. "Kneel."

Sam reverts to his hold, watching the floor, ears picking up the snick of Dean's belt unclasping, the whirr of it releasing from its loops, the clunk of it dropping on the desk. He hears the shuffle, shuffle, a finger under his chin, lifting him as much as it grounds him in reality.

"Warm. No sucking."

Sam's not sure he hides his swallow well, knees crawling forward, hands behind his back, locked. He takes Dean's hard, leaking, perfect cock into his mouth, slipping down one inch at a time. He pulses out a pearl of pre-cum onto the floor as soon as Dean's settled in the back of his throat, throbbing, dripping, a class-A drug no one but Sam gets to experience.

"I have a few things to finish up, unfortunately. You will stay where you are until I'm done." There's no eagerness in Master's tone. He sounds like he would rather throw his phone out the window than start taking calls. This is his job, though. He has to do it. "Hi, is that Mrs. Hitterstan?..."

Sam doesn't listen. He focuses on the taste in his mouth, his throat, Olympus brought to him. Somehow, he's been deemed worthy enough to taste its waters, its nectar, its kisses from the gods. He leaks again, a stream of translucent spindles like a spider's webbing trailing down from the tip of his cock to the floor. His balls are throbbing, his cock twitching as his heart hammers in his chest. His throat is slick, so slick it's like a river, a river for Dean's cock to soak in, to be cleansed in.

He hopes it cleanses. Hopes it brings him joy rather than the opposite, that Dean is comforted by the pressure of his fleshy walls clutching him, encasing him, loving him, worshipping him.

Sam certainly is. He would beg, borrow and steal, devote his life to hedonism in pursuit of one smile, one instance where Dean is content, sated… happy.

It would never be enough. Dean is everything, and he deserves the world.

"Okay, I think that's everything, Mrs. Hitterstan… Yes, I'm pleased to have you on board as well. There really aren't enough buyers with your level of intelligence. Most of the time, it feels like I'm talking to nothing but concrete. Hahaha, yes. I'm positive that Mr. Daniel's is exactly like that. Okay… Yes. And to you. Have a lovely day, Mrs. Hitterstan. Goodbye."

Dean's headset flies off and hits the desk and Sam's certain he rubs his eyes, exhausted. Fingers settle on his throat, climbing down the notches, settling around the give of his Adam's apple.

Sam waits eagerly, breathless, and not due to the cock stretching out his throat.

"Swallow."

He does, contracting hard, groaning at the pressure of Dean's cock caged in his heat. Dean's hands fold on top of his head, legs spread, preparing. Sam tries not to weep, his lips touching base, nose buried in fine, fair curls. The raw crown of Dean's cock slots deeper, cuts off all his oxygen and Sam has to imagine the death of his Mother in order to stop himself from staining the floor with something far more potent than seminal fluid.

"Good boy," Dean praises him, and Sam's heart beats like the base from speakers blasting through a nightclub, loud enough to penetrate bone, viscera, flesh and blood. He gags the slightest bit as Dean bears down on his head, holding him steady, pushing his hips up to suffocate him further. Dean undulates, tilts Sam's head side to side, down. Blood rushes to his head. He's getting hotter. His vision is clouding, throat loose and pliant, body starting to numb. "So good for me, pet," Dean says, lifting his head high enough for the feeling to return to Sam's form.

Sam holds in his whine when he's pulled the rest of the way off, spit connecting them and dripping off his chin. Eagerness to have Dean buried in his throat again so soon ratchets up, eyes trained reverently on his target.

Dean settles a palm on the back of his neck, tells him to open wide and stay still. The muscles of Dean's thighs flex as he thrusts off the chair, cock rising up and into Sam's mouth. His hips start pumping, slow, and then maddeningly fast, coming back slicker with every pull, running down to the base of his cock and adding a sheen to the thatch of hair around his groin. Sam groans deeply, hearing the impact of Dean's crown ramming into the back of his throat, wet and perfect.

A minute later, his nose is buried in moist curls, again, and Dean is snapping his hips up, hands like weights on the back of his head, his nose aching from the pressure of being squeezed tight against Dean's groin.

When Dean pulls him off this time, he does whine. Dean must be in a forgiving mood because he doesn't admonish him for it, holding his face between his palms, rubbing circles into his cheeks as he kisses his forehead, smiling at him briefly. He's told to suck then, slowly, and he's only too happy to comply, letting Dean's thick cock stretch his lips, clamping, experiencing every divot on every pass, not wanting to miss a thing.

Dean leans over him, hands coming down to fondle and smack his ass, curling around the tail of his plug and putting pressure on it. Sam's hips cant, knees lifting, ass sticking out for more. It's no secret that Master has an obsession with his ass, which is why Sam puts in the work to keep it in pristine condition, literally working his ass off in the gym and powerlifting whenever the opportunity presents itself.

He lives for those moments where he wakes up to hands groping his ass, Dean's hard, thick cock rutting, teasing, slotting between his cheeks. Sometimes it doesn't go any further than that, Dean content to press them together as tight as humanly possible, breath fanning Sam's neck as he drifts off back to sleep. Sam struggles to follow him, arousal driving him crazy with every unconscious throb of Dean's cock against his hole.

It continues like that for a while, Sam suckling on Dean's cock, his Master nudging the tail plug, dropping further to push on Sam's taint, rubbing the soft skin gingerly. Sam's hips tilt, rock, ass tucking under. Dean stops him with a firm grip on his left cheek, squeezing.

Rattling emits from his collar as Dean secures the leash, all of the air leaving Sam's lungs, Master's cock spearing his throat, buried so deep it's a wonder he doesn't get trapped. There's no way for Sam to breathe through it, nails biting into the skin of his palms as he holds on. He can hear the creak of leather from the force of Master pulling on his leash, though he latches onto the deep, throaty breaths coming from above him, pride in each rumble.

Faith gives him the strength to push through. Love gives him the wherewithal to ignore the warning signs flaring in his lungs telling him that he needs to breathe. Trust prevents him from fighting it, silencing the voices in his head screaming at him to break away, get air back in his body. His heart rate slows to a crawl, head thrumming, getting lost somewhere in the ether.

The creaking stops. Dean guides his head back, stops him when the crown is resting on his bottom lip. He orders him to breathe, tells him to get up here. Elation crackles in his gut like sparklers setting off in tandem, ass settling on Dean's lap, Master's thick, pulsing cock smearing the small of his back.

Adept hands ghost down his spine, skin vibrating in ecstasy, heart in his throat as the tail plug falls loose and thunks on the side. Then he's being guided up, the blunt, slick head of Dean's cock teasing his twitching crack. Sam can't help it, he whimpers and buries his face in Dean's neck, body dipped and bent awkwardly to accommodate the height difference.

"It's okay, Pet," Master assures him, one hand on Sam's hip, one around the base of his cock to guide his descent. Heat and pressure invade him, pleasant tingles dancing along his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck when he feels Dean's balls and thighs under his ass. "Just like this for a minute."

Dean holds him close, lightly kissing his temple as he pets his hair and strokes his long back. It soothes him the same way it frustrates him. Sam's not the one in need of comfort, care, love. It's Dean who's stressed.

"This is helping."

Sam startles at the words, and Dean shushes him, gently, adoringly, hand spanning over his head to tuck him tighter against his body.

"You're helping. Just leave it at that."

Accepting it doesn't come easily. He feels as though he should be doing more, being more, but Dean insists that he's more than enough. How is that possible? His Master is still stressed, so wouldn't that mean that he's failed his objective?

"Stop thinking too loud." A hand cracks down on his ass following the command and teeth bite into his shoulder after, Dean's jaw clamping shut hard enough to carve marks into his skin. Sam doesn't flinch, doesn't whimper, just accepts the brand he's sure to get, sure to want. He's gifted with another mark on his opposite shoulder. The only difference is that this time Master snaps his hips up as he does so, and Sam cries out

It has the desired effect of rendering him speechless, sagging into Master's hold, rolling his hips as instructed. Experienced hands guide the motion, thumbs tightening at each pass to slow the drag. He unleashes a stuttered moan when he takes Dean whole, hole flexing around the stretch, body rising and falling, flesh melding with flesh for a brief moment before ascending once more.

Master taps his sides. Sam plants his feet on the floor and widens his stance, ass tilted back, hands steady on Dean's broad shoulders.

"Look at me."

Sam does, transfixed on the green of Master's eyes, bottom lip trapped between straight white teeth, brows knitted together and jaw tightening as Dean thrusts up into him. His groin, thighs, slam into his body and send a shockwave through him, lifting the flesh around his pectorals, fingers curling into their perch.

Dean slaps his ass, squeezes, thrusts harder and harder and _harder_ , Sam's cock jumping up and down, swiping up the beads of sweat slicking Master's skin. The sound of their bodies meeting is violent, Dean's chair struggling to keep up with the pace of his ass sitting and lifting off, wheels rolling back a touch.

Hands roam up Sam's sweaty back, knead the meat on the way up. They move to his front, crawl until they're primed to bear down on his throat. They do, Dean's eyes focused entirely on the spectacle of his cock fucking him with abandon, breaths hot and moist and throaty, channels of air blowing out of his nose, crinkled by the exertion of closing his hands around Sam's neck and barrelling into him from below strenuously.

The pressure builds in his head, cock throbbing desperately, needing to loosen the coil. Dean unbinds, pulls Sam down onto him, hips rolling, pushing up, the fullness reaching his cranium as a dull whirr starts in his ears.

It's like that for several beats, Dean rocking him, telling him how good he is, that he loves the clutch of his body, the weight of his form, the sounds coming out of his mouth. All of it has Sam on cloud nine, thighs jellied, toes curling into the plush carpet on each grind up into him.

"Up," Dean commands, tapping his ass. "Bend over, spread your legs, hands on my desk." Sam follows the orders without incident, pushing his ass out, anticipation squeezing his stomach. He hears the roll of Dean's chair approaching, hands on his ass, spreading him, breaths ghosting over his hole.

Others did this to Sam before Dean. Then, he found it relaxing, small little tingles that had him sighing softly. It's a different experience when Dean does it. Hard presses have him gagging on air. Long curls bow his back and provoke a string of low to high-pitched whines emitting from his throat as he flops on the desk.

Dean devours him wholly, leaving nothing behind, sending Sam's soul spiralling into nirvana, each drag another dose of heroin pumping through his veins, bunching up from clenched fists, neck straining, jaw wired shut to keep in the dormant screams of want.

It used to be a means to an end. A way to loosen, relax, accept. Sam enjoyed it well enough, mm'd and ah'd. The way Dean does it tells him that it's not for Sam. Not really. He's prepped and ready at any moment to receive his Master. No, this is an indulgence. This is Master taking what he wants when he wants it.

He licks over his hole like it's the remnants of sweet cherry pie stuck to the bottom of the plate, and he won't stop until the plate is clean. He palms his ass with a throaty groan and a thrash of his head as though the taste is intoxicating, breaths audible and deep.

Sam loves the way Dean feats on his ass, but he knows that he's not doing it for him. There's a primordial nature to the tensing of Master's fingers as they bruise Sam's taught skin, thigh muscles straining from the spread. Dean bites the curve, gnaws, sucks and slaps both cheeks with a resounding clap.

Behind him, Dean breathes heavier, demands that he stay still. Sam listens, follows along, the breath he hadn't known he was holding onto leaving him in a whoosh as Dean enters him fully, hands in his hair and pulling his head back.

The angle allows for Dean to touch base. He doesn't stop there, however. He tugs methodically on Sam's hair while pushing with his hips at the same time. Sam's synapses light up, body shaking in fulfilment. Heat radiates off of him. His insides mould and stretch, flex and clutch the mass buried deep within. He contracts, his body pleading with Dean to start giving it to him good.

Dean doesn't respond, content to tug and tug and _tug_ as he grinds with such intensity that Sam's jaw slackens, agape and stuck for anything to do but act as a wide-open stage for his persistent screams. His throat is used and raw from the thorough throat-fucking and the unhealthy amount of stress on his vocal cords, but he can't help himself.

"That's it, Pet. Let me hear you," Master demands, slapping the side of his ass, squeezing brutally.

Sam holds nothing back. He has no choice, Dean starting up a back and forth that ensures he remembers and experiences _every single_ drag. And he does, his cock hard and wanting between his legs. The pressure is amassing, verging on the side of too much. Sam can't let it end, though. Not now. Not until he's been told that he can.

The pace changes. Dean spears him quick and sharp, their bodies meeting in tandem, producing slick claps Sam knows from experience echo outside the office. He doesn't care about the looks he's going to get as he's walking back to his desk. They don't matter. None of them will ever understand what it feels like to have this.

Dean's breathing changes. That's when Sam knows that it's time, elation spreading throughout him, hole clenching tighter, cock throbbing with need as they near the final curtain. Sensations overwhelm him, Sam's form slick with sweat, hairs standing on end, pores open, fingers flexing on the desk.

Master has never been one to make a song and dance of coming. It's perfect, to Sam, the way his breathing stutters then deepens, how he stops still, cock pulsing and hand branding Sam's hip. The small jerks of his hips and the bitten off grunt have Sam reeling, doing everything within his own power to keep his pleas within.

He feels it, the blessing of Master's cum filling up his channel. It settles inside him and he's drunk off it, eyes glazed, body relaxed and sated. The only thing keeping him upright is Master's presence in his hair, reminding him that his job is not yet done.

"Good pet," Dean tells him, and Sam swallows down a whine of protest when he extracts his cock. "Turn around, get on your back and spread your legs." Sam does as he's told, leaving no margin of error. "Perfect," Master says, then places his hand underneath Sam's ass. "Now push it out for me."

The first time Sam was asked to do this, his head almost exploded from how embarrassed he felt. Master praised him through all of it, as he is now, telling him how good he's been, how amazing he is, how he shouldn't be ashamed of anything.

Sam feels it slip out of him, mourning the loss.

"There we go." Master rises to his full height, leans over him and guides him up to a sitting position. "Now eat it."

This is another thing Sam had to get used to early on. Before, he inwardly scrunched up his nose and begged for it to be over. Now, he opens his mouth without hesitation, accepting every last drop.

"Such a good boy. Good, good boy," Dean praises, making Sam preen. "Your turn."

Sam bites his lip the second Dean wraps a hand around his cock. He's pushed back down onto his back, Dean's strokes just the side of rough that Sam likes. He doesn't last long. There's not enough stamina to go more than 20 seconds before he's coming with a low shout over his stomach.

Dean smirks at him, bends and licks up his spoils, gathering it all in his mouth. Sam watches, transfixed on his lips. His eyes darken when Dean moves up his body, using his index and thumb from one hand to pry his mouth open. Then he's depositing the load into Sam's waiting mouth, eyes watching his throat, waiting for him to swallow it all.

It settles in his stomach along with Dean's and Sam feels content.

"Well, I feel better," Dean says, smiling. Sam conveys a question in his eyes. "You can speak, Sammy. Scene's over."

"You really feel better?"

Dean nods.

"You bet. I say you've earned a little somethin' special for tonight, so write down what you want to eat and I'll make sure you get it."

"Are you going soft on me, Master?"

"You watch your tongue," Dean teases, kisses his lips. He guides Sam off the desk, slaps his hands down on his ass and tells him to get back to his desk.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. :)
> 
> Comments and kudos very much appreciated, if deserved.


End file.
